Dream a Little Dream of Me
by Katica Locke
Summary: When Finch develops a migraine, Reese takes care of him, stirring feelings in the hardened operative that he's long tried to ignore. In the morning, Finch wakes from a wonderful dream that ignites feelings he can't keep inside, causing tension between the two men. Reese demands answers; Finch guards his secrets. Will the truth come out? Slash, Rinch, angst - Don't like, don't read.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This fic is in response to a request I received. I'm having a blast writing it and I hope I did it justice. It will have four chapters, possibly five depending on how hard the smut-bunny bites. (Smut-bunny is cousin to the plot-bunny and inspires my sex scenes, lol) I hope you enjoy! Reviews are love! ^_^

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Reese strode down the long, book-lined hall toward the center of the Batcave, the knuckles on his left hand bruised and bloodied, but feeling better than the face that they had collided with, he imagined. The Number had been a simple one; embezzlement and blackmail escalating toward murder. Now both parties were on their way to jail and Reese _had_ been on his way to pick up some well-deserved Chinese food, but when he'd called Finch to see if he wanted anything and had received no answer, he'd made a beeline for the library.

His steps slowed as he neared the main chamber, the lights turned down low, the staccato tapping of Finch's fingers on plastic keys absent. Gun in hand, Reese emerged into the room and took in the scene with one sweeping glance. The computers were still on, Finch's overcoat still hanging on the rack, so he hadn't gone home. There were no signs of a struggle, no overturned furniture, nothing out of place. It simply looked as if Finch had gotten up to go to the bathroom.

Frowning, Reese crossed the room and entered a shorter, darker hallway. The bathroom door was closed, a faint line of light showing beneath it. Lightly, Reese tapped his knuckles against the wood.

"Finch, you in there?"

"Mr. Reese?" He sounded terrible.

"Something you ate not agree with you?" There was a long pause.

"Technically, yes, although not in the way you mean." Reese heard water running, then footsteps. He drew back and tucked his gun away as the door opened. Finch stepped out, his glasses off, tucked into his shirt pocket, and a wet washcloth pressed against his forehead. "The cart where I usually get my tea wasn't there today so I tried somewhere else, a mistake I'll not be making again. Inferior tea leaves give me a migraine."

"You have a headache?"

Finch gave him a dirty look. "Yes, Mr. Reese, I have a _headache_. Did you deal with Mr. Harris?"

"And the woman who was blackmailing him," Reese said, following Finch back out into the main room. Finch sank down into his chair at his workstation and cradled his head in his hands. Reese watched him, resisting the urge to step over and...He didn't even know what he could do to help, he just wanted to do something. But none of the things that came to mind were very helpful. "Do we have another Number?" he asked finally.

"Gee, I don't know," Finch said through his teeth. "Any chance I can get back to you on that?"

"Actually, if you could check now-"

"Fuck, John, can't you see I'm in agony here?"

"I know," Reese said, unable to resist his impulses any longer. He stepped over behind Finch's chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. Not very helpful, but he couldn't stop himself. Finch went still under his hand, his body tight and rigid. "I just want to know before I take you home."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're in no condition to work, Harold," Reese said, lifting his hand so the man could relax - if he ever did. "Check the Machine and then get your coat."

"Don't be ridiculous," Finch muttered, taking his glasses out of his pocket and slipping them back on. He pulled his keyboard closer and began pecking at the keys. "You don't know where I live."

"True," Reese admitted, "but there are plenty of safe houses to take you to. Or maybe I'll take you back to my place." The room went silent as Finch's hands froze, hovering over the keyboard, and Reese realized how his comment must have sounded. Freudian slip, perhaps? "It's the safest place I know and I don't mind sleeping on the couch."

After a moment, Finch went back to typing. "I assure you, Mr. Reese, I'll be fine, and I have too many things to do at the moment." One of the monitors blinked, the screen going black except for a single line of computer code. "No, there is no new Number. Go home and get some rest."

"You're coming with me," Reese insisted, walking over to the rack and taking down Finch's overcoat.

"Mr. Reese-"

"I'm perfectly capable of rendering you unconscious and carrying you down to the car, Finch," Reese said with a smile, his tone pleasant, but he meant every word. And Finch knew it. With a sigh, he gave in, shutting down the electronics and rising stiffly from his chair.

"This is kidnapping, you know," Finch said, taking the coat from him.

"Depends on your perspective," Reese replied. "I prefer to think of it as a rescue." Together they walked down to the car. Finch climbed in on the passenger's side, reclined his seat a bit, closed his eyes, and placed the wet cloth back on his forehead. The drive to Reese's loft was a silent one, interrupted only once when an ambulance went screaming through an intersection in front of them, making Finch groan miserably.

Reese pulled into the underground parking structure, creeping through the cool, dark catacomb-like area and pulling into his parking space. He shut off the engine just as Finch sighed. "We're here," he said, unnecessarily, perhaps, but he felt like he needed to say something. Finch followed him up to the third floor and down the hall to his apartment. Reese went in first, gun drawn, but the loft was empty and undisturbed. "C'mon in," he said, leaving the lights off. There was plenty of ambient light spilling in from the street below to make out the dark shapes of Reese's sparse furniture, the vast majority of which Finch had provided for the apartment.

"Make yourself at home," Reese said, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it into a chair as he headed for the bathroom. He quickly looked through his medicine cabinet, figuring that a man with chronic pain would need something a little stronger than aspirin. He emerged with two pills held loosely in his hand, amused to find his coat no longer in the chair, but hanging up on a hook behind the door, alongside Finch's. Mr. Homemaker was slumped on the sofa, his head tipped back and his eyes closed.

"Hey, Finch, I got something for you," Reese said, heading over to the kitchen nook and filling his only glass with water from the tap.

"If you're offering to put me out of my misery, I accept."

"Try these first," Reese said, walking over to the sofa and holding out his hand.

Finch raised his head a fraction. "What are those?"

"Migraine pills." Finch narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Okay, not really, but they'll knock you out so that you don't feel it." Finch hesitated. "Or I can knock you out the old-fashioned way. Your choice."

"And you're sure it's safe here?" Finch asked, finally reaching out to take the pills and glass of water. Reese opened his mouth to say that Finch ought to know, he picked the apartment, but then he realized what Finch meant. Whether Finch was aware of it or not was another matter.

"Yes, Harold, you're safe. I won't let anything happen to you." For such a private, paranoid man, the prospect of giving up one's control, one's very consciousness, in a strange place required a significant amount of trust. Perhaps more than Reese had earned. Finch regarded the pills in his hand for a long moment, then sighed and tossed them to the back of his throat, swallowing them down with a gulp of water.

"Thank you," he said, handing the glass back to Reese. Reese just carried it back to the kitchen and set it on the counter. Did Finch really trust him, or was the pain simply _that_ bad? And was Reese worthy of trust? He wanted to be. He wanted Finch to trust him, which was why it had hurt so much to discover that Finch had been hiding a Number from him. He'd thought he'd proved himself during the Ecstasy incident, when he'd had a chance to discover all of Finch's secrets and had refused. Perhaps that was why he came back more determined than ever to discover what Finch was hiding. A former fiancée never even crossed his mind.

Reese realized that he was just standing at the counter, staring at the glass. He returned to the couch and sat down, leaving a calculated amount of room between them - not so close as to intrude into Finch's personal space and no so far away as to seem unfriendly. When he spoke, his kept his voice low and soft.

"Those pills should start working in about a half an hour. You should probably be in bed before then, unless you want me to carry you."

"I'd prefer to avoid it if at all possible, actually," Finch replied dryly, but his usual sardonic humor was thin and brittle with pain.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Reese asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral, even though it wouldn't do any good to pacify the fiercely independent man.

"I'm perfectly capable of getting myself ready for bed, Mr. Reese," he said, in the exact irritated tone of voice that Reese had imagined he'd use. After a moment, he levered himself up off the sofa and hobbled across the loft to the bathroom. Reese watched every pained step, wishing there was something he could do. After the bathroom door closed, he got up and walked to the bed, turning down the covers before fetching a spare pillow and blanket out of the closet for himself. He tossed them onto the end of the couch, then stood staring out the window until Finch emerged, his jacket and tie draped over his arm, the first two buttons of his dress shirt undone.

"Mr. Reese, might I trouble you for a hanger and perhaps a T-shirt to sleep in? I wasn't aware we were going to have a slumber party or I'd have brought my own pajamas."

"It's no trouble, Finch," Reese said, finding him an empty hanger from the closet and a baggy pale blue T-shirt from the dresser. Finch lay them on the bed, turning his back to Reese as he continued unbuttoning his shirt. Reese knew he ought to walk away, but he hesitated, watching as Finch struggled with the buttons, a low grunt of pain escaping him as he slowly worked the shirt back off his shoulders. Reaching out, Reese delicately took the edges of the shirt between his fingers, fingertips brushing against Finch's shoulders. Finch drew a sharp breath, tensing as if he'd been burned. Reese ignored it and eased the shirt down Finch's arms, then handed it to him.

The silence was palpable, so thick it made it hard to breathe, and Reese was one heartbeat away from finding a motel to sleep at when Finch spoke. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft.

"Any time, Harold," Reese replied, deciding to quit while he was ahead. He went back to the kitchen area and pretended to clean up, rewashing his dishes from breakfast that morning while Finch finished changing. Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention and he glanced over as Finch peeled off his tight white undershirt, revealing pale skin marked by dark scars, a bit of a gut, and a fine mat of light brown hair on his chest.

Reese turned back to the sink before he was caught. The only thing worse than being unable to act on his feelings would be Finch finding out and openly rejecting him. It was hard enough to live with a secret - facing the truth would be impossible.

The quiet groan of new bedsprings filled the silent loft and Reese glanced over, watching as Finch sat down on the edge of the bed, wearing Reese's blue T-shirt. Finch started to lean down, presumably to untie his shoes, but stopped suddenly, pressing a hand to his forehead as he sat back up.

"John?" Finch said, his voice tight with pain.

"Yeah?" Reese asked, already halfway across the apartment.

"Could you- I mean, if it isn't too much trouble-"

"I got it, Finch," Reese said, taking a knee beside the bed and carefully removing the stiff leather shoes. "Socks on or off?"

"Off, please. It just hurts so much...and now I'm starting to feel light-headed, too."

"That's just the pills," Reese assured him, peeling off his thin, black dress socks, his callused hands cradling each warm, soft foot, his fingers gliding along the silken arch- Reese pulled his hands back and set the socks aside with the shoes. "You should fall asleep soon."

"I- I don't...don't want to sleep...Not safe..."

"Yes, you are, Harold," Reese said, looking up into his shadowed face, his eyes glazed. "Do you want to keep your pants on?"

Finch gave his head a small shake. "No..." He started to stand up, lost his balance, and sat back down hard on the edge of the bed, little lines of pain appearing around his eyes. He tried again, his stubborn streak showing, and Reese grabbed him by the upper arms, steadying him as he swayed like a reed in the wind. They stood there for several minutes, Reese gently righting the drugged man each time he listed too far in any one direction. "Can't...unbuckle...Hands don't work right..."

"Yes, those pills affect fine-motor control," Reese said. "You can just sleep in your pants; you won't even notice." He started to help Finch sit back down on the bed, but Finch resisted.

"Wrinkles..." Finch mumbled, still working at his belt.

Reese sighed. "All right, Harold, give me your hands. C'mon, we don't have much time." One by one, he moved Finch's hands up to his shoulders, making sure the wobbly man had a decent grip before reaching down and quickly unbuckling his belt.

Finch made a soft sound, almost a whimper, his eyes closing. "...touch...me..." he slurred, his words like a fist squeezing Reese's heart.

"I won't," Reese said, unbuttoning Finch's trousers and carefully lowering the zipper. Finch's pants slid down his legs, leaving him standing there in just Reese's T-shirt and a pair of black silk boxers. "All right, lay down, Harold. It's all right." Reese lowered him to the mattress, helping him lift his legs into bed. Finch dropped like a rock into the deep pool of sleep, not stirring as Reese covered him up.

Reese gathered up Finch's clothes, placing them on the hanger and hanging it in the closet beside his own handful of dark, almost uniform suits, then disappeared into the bathroom to take care of his own pre-bed rituals. As he brushed his teeth, he couldn't help regarding himself in the mirror, wondering what Finch saw that would ever make him think that Reese could hurt or take advantage of him. He hadn't with the MDMA, and that Finch would have been a hell of a lot more compliant than the unconscious man in Reese's bed.

He spat foam into the sink and splashed his face with water, drying himself on a towel before turning out the light and emerging into the dark loft. It took a moment for his eyes to readjust, then he walked over to the bed, his head cocked to one side as he stared down at Finch, his brow pinched in worry even in his sleep.

Gently, Reese removed the recluse's glasses, setting them on the edge of the massive, wooden bed frame where they'd be easy to find in the morning. Reese started to turn away, but stopped as Finch shifted, making a soft, helpless sound in his sleep, those little lines tightening around his eyes again. Without thinking, Reese reached down, soothing his distressed friend, his touch light as he smoothed back Finch's soft brown hair. Finch made an unintelligible sound, his lips moving briefly before he sighed and relaxed.

"Good night, Harold," Reese whispered, and on a whim, he leaned down and placed a feather-light kiss on the older man's forehead. "I love you."

He hadn't meant to say that, the words just fell out of his mouth before he could close it, but once spoken, he felt a kind of relief, like some of the pressure building inside him had been released. The admission was freeing, like being able to cast aside a cover and just be himself for a moment, even if only with himself. For a long time, he'd been trying to classify his feelings toward his employer. Gratitude seemed most likely, but that was too simple. Friendship was too pale, loyalty too weak. Camaraderie was closer, devotion closer still, but really, the only word that captured the intensity, the depth, the raw, aching power of his feeling...was love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **So, apparently there's currently a crackdown on stories that exceed the M rating. Anybody notice the news update on the front page? I doubt that's all because of little ol' me, lol. I love how they point out twice that their policy has been in place since 2002. That's ten years that nobody has been paying any attention to it, lol. Anyway, I've calmed down (a little) and I'll continue to post here, but I'll definitely "edit for content" before I do. So if you want to read the good, smutty versions, you can find them on my Wordpress website: katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com - just be sure to delete the spaces after each dot.

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Finch awoke with an inexplicable sense of happiness and well-being, a feeling that vanished the moment he opened his eyes. Even without his glasses, he could tell he wasn't in any of his apartments, and he sure as hell wasn't in the library. The open loft seemed vaguely familiar, and it took only a moment to realize why.

Sitting up slowly, Finch looked around for his glasses, finding them on the edge of the bed frame. With the world once more in focus, he shoved the covers back and glanced down at himself, simultaneously relieved and chagrined to discover he was wearing just his boxers and a pale blue T-shirt he didn't recognize. Better than being naked, but what was he doing in Reese's apartment, in Reese's shirt, in Reese's bed? And where was Reese?

The last question answered itself when he heard the shower shut off. He hadn't noticed the sound of the water running, but the sudden silence was loud as a gunshot. Finch climbed out of bed, bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. Sitting neatly off to the side were his shoes and socks, and he spotted his overcoat hanging behind the front door, but where were the rest of his clothes?

Finch heard the bathroom door open and a moment of irrational panic gripped him. He glanced around for a place to hide, but the loft was still as sparsely furnished as when he'd turned the key over to Reese. Without an escape, he squared his shoulders and turned to face Reese as he emerged from the bathroom.

He had a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped across his broad shoulders, one hand using the corner of the towel to rough the water from his hair. He caught sight of Finch and there was a momentary catch in his usually fluid gait. Then he smiled.

"Morning, Finch. Sleep well?"

"I...I'm not sure," Finch said. "Where are my clothes?"

"In the closet. There's plenty of hot water left if you want to take a shower while I fix breakfast. How does eggs and toast sound?"

"Fine. I- No, I should go," Finch said, limping over to the closet. His suit was neatly hung up beside Reese's. He pulled it out, his hands shaking. _What the hell was he doing there?_ "Mr. Reese, I-"

"Please, it's John. After last night-"

"What happened last night?" Finch demanded. "Why can't I remember?" _What did you do to me?_ He barely managed to close his mouth before the accusatory question slipped out, but he still thought it. What had Reese done? He wanted to believe he hadn't done anything, that there was a perfectly innocent explanation to all of this, but he'd not survived for as long as he had by looking for the best in people.

Reese regarded him for a moment, as though he had heard the unspoken question anyway, then he turned away and walked to the kitchen. "You had a migraine and were miserable, so I brought you back here because you wouldn't let me take you home. You don't remember because I gave you a couple of pain pills. The pills made you dizzy, so I helped you get undressed and you went to bed. I slept on the couch. The fuzziness should wear off in a couple of hours and you should remember. Now, do you want eggs or not?"

Finch didn't answer. He took his clothes into the bathroom and locked the door. It was warm and steamy inside, the fan running to clear out the moisture. Finch lay his clothes on the counter and stripped off Reese's T-shirt, letting it fall to the floor. _'...I helped you get undressed...'_ Finch regarded his reflection in the mirror, condensation fogging the glass, but he could still see his gut, his love handles, his graying chest hair, his pale skin, his scars. How much had Reese seen?

"It doesn't matter," he muttered, turning his back to the mirror and dressing quickly. It wasn't just his looks, or his body, or his injuries that stopped him from telling Reese the truth about how he felt, but they certainly didn't help. Maybe if he were more handsome, or more fit, or more capable, Reese might overlook the fact that he was an old man, but as it was... What did Finch have to offer?

Dressed but barefoot, Finch emerged, nervously straightening his tie as the smell of fresh toast wafted across the room to him.

"Eggs are almost ready," Reese called.

Finch limped over to the bed and sat down on the edge, picking up his socks and shoes and determinedly putting them on. "I can't stay," he said, pointedly not looking at Reese as he headed for the door.

"If you wait, I could give you a ride," Reese said.

"I'll call a cab."

"Harold-"

"I have to go," Finch said, cutting off whatever he'd been about to say. He grabbed his overcoat and fled into the hall, hobbling to the elevator without a backward glance.

He took a cab to one of his apartments, showered, changed his clothes, and grabbed tea and a bagel on his way to the library. The old building was still and silent as he made his way up the stairs and through the long corridors. Sinking into his chair with a sigh, he booted up his system and logged in, wishing he'd gotten around to installing surveillance devices in Reese's apartment. He'd known better than to try it before Reese had a chance to scour the apartment inch by inch. If Reese had found anything, it would have been a gross violation of the tense trust that existed between them - a violation that their relationship might not have survived, as the incident on Reese's birthday had proven.

So without clear footage to view, Finch went looking for every traffic and security camera within a block of the apartment. All he got were some shadows in the dark, Reese leaving off all the lights in the loft. Was it to keep from being watched? Had he anticipated Finch doing this very thing? What was he trying to hide?

Finch pushed his chair back from the table and forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. He was letting his imagination and paranoia run away with him. There was no evidence that Reese had done anything, and Finch had no reason to doubt his employee's honesty. If only he could remember...

Closing his eyes, Finch thought back to when he'd woken up. He'd been calm, safe, even happy, an unusual way for him to wake up. Most mornings he was jerked awake by a screaming alarm clock, if he wasn't roused by the throbbing ache in his neck and hip. He must have been dreaming, also an unusual occurrence. His dreams were typically closer to nightmares, filled with frustration and fear and hopelessness.

Letting his mind wander farther back, he was careful not to force it, the memories rising to the surface in their own time. He remembered being at the library, and yes - he remembered the migraine. Bad tea. Reese had been telling the truth. The relief was like having a thousand pounds lifted off his shoulders, a tightness in his chest relaxing and letting him breathe.

Finch felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he remembered Reese 'kidnapping' him, driving him through the dark city back to the loft, where Reese had given him a couple of pills. He remembered being uneasy, but the pain had been so bad... Things became a little muddled after that, and try as he might, the memories refused to settle down. They flitted about like drunken moths. Perhaps it was the pills. Perhaps it was a dream. He was a little disturbed to realize that he couldn't tell which it was.

Reese had sat beside him on the sofa, talking in that low, rumbling voice of his, and then somehow they were by the bed, Finch sitting on the edge with Reese kneeling in front of him, touching his feet. That had to be part of the dream. Finch didn't find feet particularly arousing, but it caused a strange flutter in the pit of his stomach as he remembered the touch of Reese's fingers against the bottom of his foot. Actually, the thought of Reese touching him _ anywhere_ made his mouth dry and his heart race.

Finch remembered rising to his feet - he'd felt like he was floating, the room spinning slowly around him. Reese had held him to keep him from drifting away, and then- Finch swallowed hard. Then Reese had unbuckled Finch's belt, had slid Finch's pants down... Finch opened his eyes, breathing hard as he glanced around the room. This was all consistent with Reese's story, if a bit drug-addled. Finch remembered saying something, or trying to say something as he stood, half-naked and clinging to Reese...

_'Touch me, John, please...'_

Finch brought a hand up to cover his mouth, feeling faintly sick to his stomach. Had he really said those words? Or had he just dreamed it? If he had said it, it was hard to believe that Reese would have passed up the opportunity to tease him about it, to watch him squirm with embarrassment. That was the ex-op's favorite past-time, it seemed. So perhaps his words had been too slurred to make out. One could hope.

Reese had lain him down in bed and covered him up before walking away. He remembered hearing water running, and feeling his glasses be taken from his face. He thought he'd tried to tell Reese to be careful with them, but then a warm hand had smoothed back through his hair and something touched his forehead - a kiss. Reese's soft voice drifted through the haze in his mind, a low, murmured, _'I love you'._ Definitely a dream.

But a good dream. Finch leaned back in his chair, his eyes unfocused and a small smile quirking his lips. It had been too long since he'd heard those words spoken. This was his subconscious mind's way of trying to ease his loneliness, trying to make him feel like he used to, before he lost Grace and Nathan. That's all it was, nothing more. And it couldn't ever _be_ anything more. And he could live with that. He didn't have a choice.

Sitting forward, he pulled the keyboard closer and got to work. There was another Number waiting, a young woman, and by the time Finch realized that Reese _still _hadn't shown up, he already had a pretty good idea of what sort of trouble she was in. He called Reese, annoyed when it went to voicemail.

"Mr. Reese, we have a new Number. Call me at your earliest convenience."

Less than a minute passed before the phone rang. "Morning, Finch," Reese said, apparently deciding that last night never happened. For some reason, that just irritated Finch more. "Who's the Number?"

"Rachel Hinks, twenty-four, works as a receptionist at Mayfair Medical Clinic," Finch reported.

"I know the place," Reese said. "They offer free medical care to the poor and homeless. What did she do?"

"Fell in love with someone she shouldn't have," Finch said, instantly regretting his choice of words and tone. He needed to stay objective, professional. "Her boyfriend owed quite a sum of money to a local bookie, around fifteen thousand dollars. Seems betting on the ponies didn't turn out to be the safe investment he'd thought. Three months ago he was killed in a car accident - and I checked, it was really an _accident_ - and now they're going after her for the money."

"Sounds like we have options, then," Reese said. "Easiest thing to do would be to pay them off. You can afford it, right?"

"I can afford to buy Manhattan, Mr. Reese," Finch said dryly. He already owned almost nine percent of the real estate on the island. "What's our other option?"

"Bookmaking _is_ illegal. I could try to get an account with them, place a few bets, find out where they operate from, who's involved, and then hand them over to the police."

Finch considered it, but underground gambling, while certainly criminal, wasn't quite the violent crime they were supposed to be stopping. "Pay the bookie. If you want to go after the operation, do it on your own time."

"Understood," Reese said and the line went silent. He didn't hang up, though. After a minute, his low voice was back. "How's your headache this morning?"

"Fine."

"Really? It hasn't come back?"

'No, Mr. Reese."

"Oh. Do you have the cash to cover Miss Hinks' inherited debt, or should I start hitting the ATMs?"

"I have it."

"All right. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Fine." Finch hung up and rose from his chair, limping down the hall to his office and counting out fifteen, thousand dollar stacks of cash. Then he added an extra five, just in case. Lowlife bookies often charged 'fees and interest'. After placing the money in a bag, he returned to the main room to find Reese already there. The sight of him sparked a memory and for an instant, Finch could feel warm lips against his forehead. Stupid dream.

He handed the bag to Reese and turned away. "There's twenty in there, in case you need it."

"Thanks," Reese said, but he didn't leave. Finch waited, willing him to just _go_, but his presence lingered, like a gathering storm, the silence heavy, almost painful. "Do you...do you think that I did something to you last night?" Reese asked finally.

"No," Finch said quickly, decisively. "I know you didn't. I remembered what happened. You were a perfect gentlemen," he added, trying for humor and failing. He still couldn't look at him, though.

"Then why are you angry at me?"

"I'm not angry at you, Mr. Reese."

"Are you sure? Because you've been very short with me ever since you woke up this morning."

"I'm not angry," Finch said, his tone sharp. "I just- I'm not- I don't like waking up in a strange bed with no memory of how I got there. I'm a little out of sorts. I'll get over it. Now go take care of Miss Hinks' problem."

"Understood," Reese said and Finch listened to footsteps retreat. That was all it was - he was out of sorts. He most certainly wasn't angry that some foolish dream was only a dream. Finch closed his eyes and sighed. It had seemed so real. But it wasn't, and he needed to forget about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I just wanted to thank everyone who visited my Wordpress. I had over 700 hits on two separate days last week! If you want to be alerted to when I post new stories over there, be sure to sign up to follow my blog. I won't post very often, only when I post a story that's too mature to be added over here in the kiddie pool of fanfiction. (Still a little bitter about being reported, but I'm getting over it, lol) So, since I love seeing the jump in views, be sure to check out katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com if you haven't yet.

And now, the next chapter. Only one more after this!

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"Out of sorts, my ass," Reese muttered, descending the stairs of the library and exiting the building. He's seen Finch out of sorts - when he'd been waiting for Finch at Finch's day-job, when he'd woken him after he fell asleep at his table, when he'd gotten caught snooping around the library and trying to hack Finch's computer. This was angry, and Reese had no idea what he'd done. It didn't help matters that Finch was lying about it.

Putting it aside, Reese walked to his car and climbed inside, setting the bag with the twenty thousand dollars in it on the passenger's seat. He checked traffic and pulled away from the curb, heading across town to the clinic. He'd gone there a couple of times during his months on the street. He even vaguely remembered seeing Miss Hinks once. She was sitting behind the counter when he walked in, the waiting room already crowded, but unlike the busy uptown avenues where a 'guy in a suit' blended in with the rest of the herd, here he stuck out like a giraffe in a room full of zebras.

Ignoring the stares, he stepped up to the reception window. Miss Hinks was busy organizing some papers and passed him a clipboard full of forms without looking. "Please fill this out as much as you can," she said. "The doctor will be with you as soon as he can."

"I don't need a doctor," Reese said, his voice low. "I'm here to help you."

She glanced up at him, a wariness in her eyes that reminded him of Finch. "And how are you going to help me? Do I know you?"

"No," Reese said, giving his head a shake, "but I know you're in some trouble over a debt that isn't yours."

The color drained from her face. "Did he send you here to intimidate me? 'Cause it's working. You don't have to take me out into the alley and break my legs. I'll get the money, I just need more time-"

"Relax," Reese said, reaching over the counter and placing his hand lightly over hers. She was shaking like a leaf. "Nobody sent me. I heard you were in trouble and I want to help. I have the money to pay off the debt, I just need you to call and set up a meeting with your boyfriend's bookie."

"Ex-boyfriend," she said softly. "We broke up two weeks before the accident. I was tired of his gambling." A quiet, near-hysterical laugh escaped her and she covered her mouth with her hand, looking surprised and embarrassed. "Sorry, I just...Did you say you were going to pay the debt?"

"That's right," Reese said, placing the bag on the counter. "It's fifteen thousand, right?"

"Almost," she said, her eyes widening as he pulled five of the stacks out of the bag and tucked them into his coat.

"I brought extra in case they give me trouble," he explained. "Now, call them. Tell them you have their money."

Her hands shook as she scrolled through her smartphone, looking for the number. "I hate this darn thing," she muttered, tentatively tapping the touchscreen. "Present from my brother...There wasn't anything wrong with my other phone- Here it is." She raised the phone to her ear, her breath coming in short, nervous gasps as she waited. "Hello, this is Rachel Hinks. I have the money my boyfriend owed you."

She was about to hyperventilate. Reese reached out and gently took the phone from her. "I'll be conducting business for Miss Hinks from now on," he said smoothly.

"Who the fuck are you?" asked a raspy voice with a heavy Brooklyn accent.

"John Rooney, Assets," Reese answered with a small smirk. "I'm a friend of Miss Hinks. Now, do you want your money, or not?"

There was some talking in the background, something he couldn't make out. "All right," the raspy voice said a moment later. "There's a vacant lot on the corner of West 44th and Ninth Avenue. One hour. Don't be late." The line went dead and Reese handed the phone back.

"You don't have to worry anymore," he said, grabbing the bag of money off the counter. "I'll take care of this."

"Wait," she said as he headed for the door. He glanced back. "Why are you doing this?"

"It's...complicated," he said, and walked out before she could ask any more questions. Complicated didn't even begin to describe it. He didn't do it for the money, or for the adrenaline rush. He did it to help people, to redeem himself for his past sins, but it had become something more than that, too. He did it because he wanted Finch to see something other than a monster, a killer, when he looked at him.

He didn't know for certain that that was what Finch thought of him, but it wasn't hard to imagine that was what the wary looks and tensed shoulders and constant surveillance meant. He was nothing more than a trained wolf; he would hunt and fight and protect, but Finch would never turn his back, never let down his guard. That had to be why he was so 'out of sorts', because he'd taken his eyes off the wolf and now he wondered what sort of damage had been done.

With a sigh, Reese climbed into his car and eased out into traffic. He thought about calling Finch to update him on the situation, but decided it wasn't really necessary. Of course, that didn't usually stop him, not lately, anyway. He'd found himself 'checking in' for no particular reason, other than to hear Finch's voice, and perhaps coax an unguarded comment out of him. He'd been both amused and chagrined to realize he'd turned into a teenage girl, calling his crush a dozen times a day, but if Finch noticed, he gave no sign. He probably _did_ notice, but assumed it was just another interrogation tactic, and Reese had no idea how to convince him differently. Everything he did or said was met with suspicion.

He arrived at the meeting place fifteen minutes early, parking a couple of blocks away and walking the rest. The location was not optimal, bordered on the east by an abandoned building riddled with dark, broken windows. Reese eyed the high rooftop, looking for snipers, but these were petty criminals, not the CIA. Still, it made the scar on his abdomen ache.

He was waiting in the lot when the bookie arrived, accompanied by a couple of thugs, both packing. They walked toward each other, sizing each other up like wolves from rival packs. Except Reese didn't have a pack. He was alone. He pushed the thought aside and focused on the problem at hand.

"John Rooney?" the bookie asked, an older, overweight man with the stub of a cigar in his teeth.

"That's right," Reese said. He noticed the two thugs eyeing the bag in his hand.

"You got my money?"

Reese held up the bag, then tossed it to one of the thugs. "Fifteen thousand. I trust that will cover it."

"Not quite," the bookie said, much as Reese had expected. "I been waiting for this for six months."

"How much?"

"Another ten."

"You can have two," Reese said, reaching into his coat. The two thugs tensed, the one not holding the cash reaching for his gun. Reese stared him down and finished pulling the two grand out of his pocket. He flipped the stacks of cash to the second thug, who let go of his weapon to catch it. Amateurs. "We're done here. Do not contact Miss Hinks again." Reese turned to leave.

"Hey, boss, look what I found."

Reese glanced back as a third thug approached, a terrified-looking Miss Hinks walking in front of him, his hand tangled in her long hair. Reese took a slow breath, reevaluating the situation in the span of a heartbeat. His expression unchanging, he turned back, one hand quietly unbuttoning his suit jacket.

"Let her go," he said. "You have your money."

"Shut up," the bookie said, shifting his cigar stub from one side of his mouth to the other. "You smug sonsofbitches in your fancy suits, you think you can dictate terms to me? You got six hours to bring me fifty thousand or they'll be pulling your girl out of the East River. And don't make us wait too long or we might have to _entertain_ ourselves," he said, reaching out to trail his knuckles down her cheek.

Definitely amateurs. Professionals would know better than to let themselves be distracted, to take their eyes off the wolf. Reese drew his gun, the first shot ringing out before they even realized that they'd royally fucked up. One of the thugs hit the ground screaming, blood smearing his hands as he grabbed at his knee. Reese fired twice more in quick succession, shoulder and thigh disabling thug number two as he drew his gun.

The third thug, the one holding Miss Hinks, tried to hide behind her as he fumbled for his weapon, but he'd tangled his dominant hand in her hair, another amateur move. Reese pointed his pistol at the bookie's head.

"Drop it," he said to the thug, his voice calm and quiet, "or your boss is dead."

The thug hesitated.

"Just fucking do it!" the bookie hissed, his cigar stub falling from his lips. The thug dropped his pistol on the ground and kicked it away.

"Now let her go."

The thug disentangled his hand from her hair. As soon as she was free, she hurried over to him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered, tears streaking her ashen face.

"Don't worry about it," he said, "just keep walking." Reese followed, backing out of the lot until he felt pavement under his feet. He lowered his gun and turned, grabbing Miss Hinks by the upper arm and escorting her down the street.

"Aren't they going to come after us?" she asked.

"They're not that stupid," Reese said, but he glanced back, just in case. He was right - the bookie was too concerned with grabbing his money and getting his injured employees out of there before the cops showed up. Reese could already hear the wail of sirens in the distance.

They didn't speak again until they were in his car. Reese glanced over at her, staring out through the windshield with a shell-shocked expression on her face. "Are you all right?" Reese asked, making her jump.

"I- I think so," she said. "I've never- never seen anyone shot before."

"How did you find me?" She couldn't have followed him.

"This stupid phone," she said, pulling it out of her pocket. "It records all my conversations. I don't know how to change the settings. I played it back and heard where you'd be meeting them."

"It records _all_ your conversations?"

She nodded.

"And did those guys ever call and threaten you?"

"All the time," she said, nodding again.

Reese allowed himself a small, smug smile. "I've got a friend at the NYPD I'd like you to talk to. Would you be willing to testify that those guys threatened to kill you?"

"I- I think so."

"Good. Did you drive there?"

She shook her head. "Taxi."

"Why did you come? You knew these guys were dangerous."

"I know, I just- I needed to know if you were for real, that this wasn't a trick or a joke or a dream. Nobody's ever done anything like this for me before. I needed to see for myself."

He could understand that. It was still foolish and had almost gotten them both killed, but it was understandable. He drove her back to the clinic and parked across the street.

"Thank you," she said as she unbuckled her seatbelt and prepared to get out. "If there's ever anything I can do, _anything_..."

"Actually, there is something," Reese said. He reached into his coat and pulled out the extra three thousand he hadn't given to the bookie. He held it out to her. "I want to donate this to the clinic. Can you do that for me?"

"I- Yes, but- Why? Who _are_ you?"

"I was in a...dark place in my life not too long ago," Reese said. "When I needed help, I came here, and now that I can, I want to return the favor."

Her hand was still shaking as she reached out and took the money, tucking it out of sight in her purse. She climbed out of the car and he watched her cross the street, waiting until she was safely inside the clinic before pulling away from the curb, another mission accomplished. Almost. He pulled out his phone and dialed Carter.

"I've got a present for you," he said, smiling to himself as he laid on the charm.

"Oh?" Finch said, sounding startled.

Reese's smile vanished in an instant and he glanced down at the phone. Damn it. "Sorry, Finch, I thought I'd called Carter."

"I see," Finch replied, that frostiness back in his tone. "How did your meeting go?"

"A little more complicated than expected, but Miss Hinks won't be bothered anymore."

"Good."

Reese hesitated. "Harold..."

"I'll call you when I have another Number, Mr. Reese," Finch said and the line went dead. Reese let out a frustrated sigh. What the hell was wrong with that man? After a moment, Reese changed lanes and turned the corner, heading for the library. He couldn't keep working like this, and since quitting wasn't an option, that only left dragging the truth out of Finch, and Reese had had a lot of practice at getting people to talk.


	4. Chapter 4

Finch set his phone down on the table and leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. This was absurd. Grown men did not sulk, did not act like petulant children, did not harbor feelings of resentment toward their employee because he turned out to not be the literal man of their dreams. It was ridiculous. And he had a feeling it was wearing on Reese's patience.

He'd tried to forget the dream, tried to put it out of his mind, but every time he thought of Reese - and it seemed like _everything_ reminded him of the man - he could feel those warm lips against his forehead again, hear the whispered _I love you_, and it opened the raw wound in his chest all over again. It hurt so badly, because it had felt so real, and because he wanted it so much.

But that didn't matter. Only the Numbers mattered. Finch straightened up and pushed his chair back, struggling to his feet, his hip stiff from sitting too long. He limped over to his List, staring at the long column of numbers, so many people, so many lives, so much pain. Together, he and Reese had kept the List from growing, had slowed the natural decay of civilization. He could not trivialize all that they had accomplished, could not jeopardize all that they could do, not for something so selfish and inconsequential.

Turning away, he made his way down one of the back halls to the lounge. He filled his kettle and put it on the hotplate, then decided to clean out the mini-fridge while he waited for the water to heat. The shelves were filled with cartons of fried rice and chow mien, slices of pizza and boxes of chicken wings, most with just a bite or two left in the bottom. Pulling over the garbage can, Finch knelt in front of the fridge, ignoring the pain in his body as he reached to the back of the shelves.

It was Reese who insisted on saving the leftovers, a habit Finch assumed he picked up during his time on the street. When food was tight, nothing was thrown away. And Reese probably would have eaten everything he saved, but Finch didn't trust re-heated take-out. He insisted on having it fresh, and so the fridge slowly filled up.

He had just finished chucking the last container when the kettle began to whistle. With a groan, he levered himself up off the floor, using the fridge for support, his knees aching. He was too old to be kneeling on linoleum. He turned off the hotplate, measured his leaves into the tea strainer, and poured the water through. The aromatic steam filled the air, just the heavy, damp smell helping to ease the tension from his shoulders. This was all he needed, just a little time to relax. The next time he spoke to Reese, everything would be back to normal.

He took a slow, appreciative sip of the hot tea, the steam fogging up his glasses. He waited for the lenses to clear, then turned to head back out to his computers. He stopped short, almost slopping the scalding liquid all down his hand.

"Mr. Reese, I thought I told you to knock," he snapped at the operative, standing no more than an arm's length away.

"Sorry, Harold, didn't mean to startle you," Reese said, but his voice was flat and without sincerity. It made Finch distinctly uneasy.

"What are you doing here?" Finch asked. "I said I'd call you."

"We need to talk."

Finch's mouth went dry, his skin cold as a thin thread of fear wound through his gut. Reese didn't frighten him often - when he'd slammed him against the wall in the hotel, when he'd been waiting in Finch's cubicle, when he'd taken Andrew Benton, when he'd made Finch get out the car on his birthday - but when he did, it was a cold, hopeless sort of terror, like realizing you're in a room with a monster you can't outrun.

Finch turned away to hide his shaking hands as he set his mug of tea down on the counter. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Oh, I disagree," Reese said, his shoes making a soft sound as he took a step closer. Finch tensed, his heart pounding in his throat.

"Mr. Reese, I- I- I would like you to leave now."

"I'm not going anywhere, _Harold_," Reese said, that low, intimidating voice edging even closer. Finch could almost _feel_ Reese standing behind him, the monster breathing down his neck. Finch had always wondered if it was panic or hope that made people run even when there was no chance of escape. Now he knew. It was panic. He pushed himself away from the counter, scrambling for the door, a brittle yelp escaping him as Reese grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back, shoving him up against the counter.

Finch tried to push him away, only to find his wrists seized in a vice-like grip, his arms shoved back down to his sides.

"What did I do?" Reese demanded, scowling, angry.

"You didn't do anything," Finch said, gasping for breath. "Let go of me."

"If I didn't do anything, why are you acting like this? Why are you mad at me?"

"It's personal."

"_Harold-_"

"I had a dream about you," Finch confessed, feeling the color rise into his face as he averted his gaze. "You kissed me and- and you said you loved me."

Reese drew back, releasing Finch's wrists, his menacing aura vanishing. The monster disappeared. "And that made you angry?"

"The fact that it was just a dream made me angry," Finch said, his voice low. "Now, if you don't mind, I-" He tensed as Reese stepped toward him again, reaching up and gently removing Finch's glasses. "What are you-"

"Goodnight, Harold," Reese whispered, making the short hairs on the back of Finch's neck stand on end. Reese leaned close and pressed a soft kiss to Finch's forehead, one hand sliding back through Finch's hair. "I love you."

Finch gaped at him, for a moment unable to think. _How did he know?_ It was just a dream. How did he-

"It wasn't a dream, was it?"

"No," Reese said, drawing back as Finch shoved past. This time, Reese didn't stop him. Finch made it as far as the doorway before he got a hold of himself, mastering his fight or flight response enough to stop, his hands braced on either of the door frame and his head bowed as he struggled to control his breathing.

"Did you really mean it?" he asked finally, not looking back at Reese.

"Yes," Reese said, his voice quiet and low. Finch felt like he'd had the breath knocked out of him. He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of it all. "Are you really afraid of me?" Reese asked, his words like a fist inside Finch's chest, squeezing his heart.

"Sometimes..." he whispered.

"I'd never hurt you, Harold."

"I know," Finch said, turning to look at him, his vision blurry. Reese stood at the counter, looking down at Finch's glasses in his hands. "I know that now."

"Do you?" Reese asked, his brows drawn together when he turned around. "Do you trust me?"

Finch hesitated.

"I didn't think so," Reese said.

"You didn't let me answer," Finch said. "I once told you that trust wasn't something that I came by easily. I have my reasons. I've been betrayed, I've been used, I've been hurt - _I don't trust people. _But I trust you. It's not easy for me and sometimes I forget, but I would trust you with my life."

"What about your heart?" Reese asked softly. "Would you trust me with that?"

"Yes," Finch answered.

"Would you trust me with your body?"

Finch hesitated again, taking slow, deliberate hobbling steps across the room to stand before Reese. "I don't know why you would want it, but yes, I would." This close, Reese was almost in focus, and Finch could make out the softening of his expression. Not pity, but understanding.

Reese handed his glasses back and Finch settled them in place, wondering what they were supposed to _do_ with this newfound understanding of each other, but as with many situations, Reese seemed to already have a plan. Reese raised one large, strong hand, his callused fingers smelling of gunpowder as he cupped Finch's face. Tongue darting out to moisten dry lips, Finch took a shaking breath as Reese bowed his head. Everything about Reese was reflected in his kiss - it was confident, determined, skilled, powerful, and a little frightening, but Finch found himself opening his mouth to the operative, a jolt shuddering through him as their tongues touched.

- - - CUT - - -

For several long minutes, neither of them moved or spoke. Finch felt better than he had since before the accident, all the little aches faded away to nothing, his pain masked by a fog of feel-good chemicals in his brain, but eventually the afterglow began to fade and he found himself shivering, the air cold on his naked back. He had just made up his mind to get up when Reese's hands began rubbing up and down his back, the warmth and friction chasing the chill from his skin.

"I've wanted to do this for so long," Reese said softly. "Just to be able to hold you is more than I ever dreamed of."

"Please don't use that word."

"What word?"

"_Dreamed_. If this turns out to be nothing but a dream..."

Reese chuckled. "It's not. But if it was, I'd never want to wake up."

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the cut scene; blame FFN. If you would like to read this chapter in its entirety, you can visit katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com (without the spaces). Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the story.


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